to fall, to fall, to fall at your feet
by imprint of a doe
Summary: At night, everything is a dream. He wakes during the day only to fall back in.  arthur/eames


**Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to Christopher Nolan and the people at the movie studios and such who made Inception. I do not own them nor do I make money off of this. Lyrics written by Florence and the Machine.**

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><p><strong>to fall, to fall, to fall at your feet<strong>

_{i'm not calling you a liar, just don't lie to me}_

it's fast, almost too fast to enjoy, frantic and quiet and filthy.  
>hidden, secret, forgotten.<br>a gasp; something desperate, breathy, whiny; a swallowed moan. captured by another's mouth, hands, eyes, voice, everything.  
>a name, fluttering on wings from his lips, and it stops.<br>hesitation, censure, anger.  
>slowly, slowly, mouth back on his, softer, cooler, calmer.<br>everything slows, as if in a dream.  
>he says it again, again, again, because he finally can.<br>Eames.

_{i'm not calling you a thief, just don't steal from me}_

Arthur doesn't need to turn around to know who has entered the warehouse. He can tell, terribly, because he's familiar with every member of their base team, familiar with footsteps and breathing and scent. Most familiar with this one.

Familiar, in some hazy corner of his mind, with the man's way of moving, the sounds of his clothes brushing his skin, a smell imprinted upon him and a voice which never seems to let him go. He hates, fears.

"Eames," he says, and his voice is not tight-not with anticipation, not with curiosity, not with want. Everything is loose.

He doesn't want Eames anymore; hasn't ever; won't.

"Hullo, darling, you're looking bloody spectacular today. Shoot someone already, have you?"

Arthur doesn't need to turn around to know Eames is amused, lips pursed. He does anyway.

Wishes he hadn't.

"How is it going with your mark?" he asks because it's all a job, only a job. Professional.

Eames is close, leaning back against the partition separating his desk from Ariadne's. "Ah, it's a wonderful, simply wonderful. He's a very simple person, of course, but that makes it all the more difficult, hmm? Much more interesting this way. Complicated gets boring-it's all oxymoronic."

Arthur thinks there are too many oxymorons as of late. "But you're going to be ready?" he says, ignoring everything else. Cool, distant, his eyebrows do not lower at all.

He is not annoyed, hurt, confused-he is Arthur, and Arthur is calm unless he's just finding out he might be stranded in limbo. Arthur does not feel his heart picking up speed, does not swallow, but stares at Eames because he always has.

Only Eames stares back, no trace of a smile now, and this isn't at all per usual. "Arthur."

He blinks, lets his eyes stay closed. No.

"I'm glad to know it's all going well. If you'll excuse me, I was just settling in to do a bit more research." Careful, treading lightly, staying back from the unstable edge. He will not fall over, much less jump, and this would require a leap he would never survive. Eames should know this.

Eyes still closed, he can feel Eames move forward, hear it, want it. He moves, pushes off of his desk to stalk away. Coffee, maybe.

But there's a hand grasping his wrist, expectant eyebrows raised, curious and amused and possibly darker than reasonable.

"I need to talk to you, actually, if you don't mind. I know you're a very busy man, Arthur, but just a moment of your time."

So he takes a breath, turns, stares down because he is not weak, he is not afraid, he is not unsure. He is Arthur, and this is Eames.

The sun is up. They're in the warehouse.

This is not Arthur's bed, left empty in the morning but for him and the ache he feels, empty satisfaction. This is not Eames' couch where he sinks into the cushions with both of their weight. This is not dark, hurried, done because it is what it is.

"Fine."

He sits in his swivel chair now, watches Eames perch on the edge of the desk, reaches out to pick up a pen or else he'd start casting his die, nervous, needing reassurance in a way he won't let on. Needing, always needing, never getting enough.

He doesn't say it.

Sometimes, he thinks Eames knows. When they're connected, moving together, and the only sounds allowed are breathy gasps and bitten-back moans, nonsensical words and syllables but never names, never, never during that time when Arthur thinks there probably should be, would be for anyone but them.

"Cobb asked me to talk to you," Eames says, and it's not good, can't be good. Cobb trusts Arthur more than he trusts Eames, even if he likes the other man more sometimes. Arthur misses Mal; she wouldn't send Eames to talk to him, maybe because she always knew things before he did.

"About?"

"The job. He thinks you're moving too quickly and overlooking details." He seems to pause, but Arthur does not look away from him. He is strong, will not be beaten down, and Eames sighs, adds quietly, "He mentioned the way you hadn't told us Fischer's mind was militarized."

Arthur's jaw sets. He feels hollow for a moment before anger licks up the sides of the cavity, filling him until he is whole. "I'm not overlooking anything," he says tightly. "We've had more time to prepare for this job, and I did a hell of a lot of work getting us all out of that job alive. He can't hold that over my head."

"I know, darling, I know," and Eames raises his hands like Arthur has his 9mil pressed against his temple. "I'm just the messenger and I had planned to leave that part out until you glared at me like I should melt into the cracks in the concrete. I won't, you know. Melt. However much you seem to wish I would. You're very touchy lately, hmm?"

Finally, Arthur breaks his gaze, stares down at his hands. Fights for only a moment before he reaches into his breast pocket for the die. Eames looks at it, keeps looking, and there's just the slightest frown. Arthur rolls.

Three.

Three.

Three.

He hadn't expected anything less, not really, not this time.

Sometimes he wants to roll the die while Eames is on top of him, under him, moving with him. Because those are the times he doubts, black memories, one or the other of them gone immediately after release. Escaping a tether, a dream, and when he slips back into his own apartment, out onto the dark street, it could have all been made up.

It feels that way now.

"Maybe you should be sleeping more," Eames says, and Arthur would call that catch in his voice worry if Eames ever worried. But he doesn't.

Arthur shakes his head, stands. "If that's all Cobb wanted you to say to me, be assured I'm sleeping perfectly well. I'm also making a decent headway on the research and will be readily prepared for the extraction."

He walks away.

_{i'm not calling you a ghost, stop haunting me}_

here, again, pressing into him. breathing rough, ragged, against the man's neck. hands at his hips, pulling him closer, scrabbling, like they can't help it.

they can't help it.

it happens, again, again, again.

every time, and he hates himself for it.

quickening, more forceful. nearing completion, the end, when it will be done, over, and he'll wake up.

only he doesn't wake up.

_{i love you so much, I'm gonna let you kill me}_

It's dark, the alleyway thick with smells, brick cool against his fingertips as he walks. Grounding himself, centering himself, because this time he's not ready for silence. This time it's not about physical, perhaps never has been, but tonight he can't do it anymore.

Eames seems to understand this, stares at him standing in the doorway for minutes before he finally steps aside, slowly, hesitantly, and Eames is never hesitant. Arthur steps forward, closes the door behind him, leans back against it.

Stares.

And then Eames is there, lips against his, moving, drawing in. He smells of smoke, his skin cool like he's been outside when it was really Arthur.

Arthur pushes him back, follows, walks him backward into the bedroom. Usually it's the couch but tonight convention doesn't sit well with him.

Only he ends up on his back, under Eames, writhing against him as clothes are shed, as hips press close, as fingertips bruise.

And he can't help it, can't hold back, and it slips through.

His eyes close as Eames reacts, because this really is the first time he's ever slipped up. Eames is the man he works with, while this man on top of him seems an entirely different person.

Until he's not. Until he moves forward again and Arthur breathes him in, meets his eyes, finally, finally, lets go.

"That's it, darling. Took you fucking ages."

_{there but for the grace of god go i, and when you kiss me, i am happy enough}_

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><p><strong>-author's note-<strong>

story inspired by and lyrics from Florence and the Machine's 'I'm Not Calling You A Liar.'

and yes, inception is one of my fandoms and this is one of my OTP's. ugh. I'm finding too many lately.


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